


Social Distancing

by chicating



Category: Grosse Point Blank (1997)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicating/pseuds/chicating
Summary: A present-day look at Martin Blank's life...he's out of trouble now.  Or is he?
Relationships: Martin Blank/Debi Newberry





	1. A New Normal...

Martin found Grosse Pointe weird and soulless on its best day, but it was just eerie holed up in his in-laws’ house with no people on the streets. He was pretending to work(Marcella had turned out to have a real flair for investing, and had given him some great tips, but the unrest was threatening to affect everything. He swore, but he wouldn’t even be alive right now if he couldn’t keep his cool. He wondered if it was the ghost of an old instinct that made him tense when a nondescript sedan turned around in the cul-de-sac and hoped he’d not succumbed to some suburban prejudice by tensing up while watching the black driver. (He was pretty sure that downloading NextDoor had been a miscalculation, but he had enjoyed still feeling like he was in the mix.) he flicked channels on the television, watching briefly, but nothing really captured his attention for more than a moment.

Besides, Debi was pretty much the main breadwinner, both from her successful eighties-nostalgia podcast and because she sold a carefully-elided memoir of their relationship to a women’s cable channel. She came out of the guest bedroom, laptop in hand, with that glow that he loved when she thought she did something great. “Hey, babe,” she said. “ Did you call and check on Dad today? What bad luck for him to tear a ligament just when nobody can visit.” She blew him a kiss.(Neither of them was sick, but somehow touching didn’t seem appetizing. Still, when he “caught” her kiss, her heart still beat a little faster at his quick action.)

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Do I want to know what that means?” Debi asked.  
“Don’t worry…I have my binoculars.”  
“Very reassuring, like a thing that’s not.”


	2. Across The Miles...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin checks in on a loved one.

Martin’s laptop made a noise so he turned away from the movie he was half-heartedly watching. He didn’t know why he tortured himself watching hired-killer movies..the inaccuracies got to him.

“Hi, Uncle Marty!” Marcella’s energetic tween daughter Katrina said. (The uncle title was purely ceremonial, although at times Marcella had been like a nagging little sister…Marty was their private joke.)

"How are you holding up, Peanut?” The visual on the screen moved around and Martin could see that she was wearing a gi as if she were still going to her suspended karate lesson and that her feet were bare and a few of her toes were painted pink He was grateful for her overflow of energy because even that little sign of womanhood from someone he’d known since she was a curly-haired toddler made him uncomfortably aware of the passage of time.

“Kind of going crazy without my classes!” Still, Katrina found a way to flash a dimpled smile amidst her nervous energy.  
Maybe when you’re older we’ll talk about kickboxing…when I was young it was the sport of the future. Katrina moved again and Martin’s screen filled with their ocean view…unexpectedly, hard-coreMartin Blank felt himself getting a lump in his throat. Here, in the flat Midwest of his birth, he longed for ocean breezes and the scene of his reinvention. He married Debi on the beach as she insisted, and it took years for her father to forgive.


	3. Not A Blast From The Past...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old nemeses and friends return...

Martin Blank stood outside for a moment after retrieving Debi’s “Free Press”(In keeping with her retro podcast, his wife preferred a folding paper that left ink on her hands, though they shared reading The Nation on Martin’s tablet.) He retrieved the paper and pretended he wanted a breath of spring air, but the truth was he was girding his loins to face Debi’s father, whom, he already knew from much briefer bouts, made an awful patient. That same car drove through the cul-de-sac and made the hair Martin’s neck rise…this time, he got a look at the driver, whose familiar profile and snow-on-the-roof hairstyle kind of reminded him of Obama.(He had criticized Obama in the past, as well as working for years outside the law, but he felt fairly confident that the former President would not come out in a luxury car to settle the score personally. Wasn’t he?) He stood there for a moment, feeling foolish, wondering if the seldom- remitting whiteness of the suburbs made his intuition misfire, squashing Deb’s paper…. Suddenly, he heard the zip of a power window going down and a voice calling “Martin? It’s been a long time.”

“That it has,” Martin bluffed.” Since Prague, right?” There was another more vivid memory scratching at Martin’s consciousness, but he could not retrieve it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath as he’d learned in therapy, and remembered Debi’s parents’ hallway as a crime scene. Suddenly, the man in the car didn’t look like the 44th President anymore, as he watched Martin impassively. “I thought you were dead,”

I came close enough,” he shuddered. He reached in his pocket and, for an instant, Martin was disappointed that the life that flashed before his eyes looked like the picture in the wrong end of a telescope. Instead of the Glock or Sig Sauer Martin might have expected, the black man pulled out a chip. “ Before we get down to why I’ve come here, is it wrong to say I’m kinda geeked that you remember me from Prague.”  
“If people don’t,” Martin advised. “I wouldn’t take it personally…it was kind of a wild scene when we were there. You know?”  
“Yeah, I’m hip. I always liked that you never cared what folks think.”  
Martin stepped out further onto the empty street. He wasn’t the type to still seek forbidden thrills, but the space felt nice. He scanned the front page of the newspaper before the black man spoke again. “This is hard to say,”  
“You could just shoot me an e-mail,” Martin offered kindly. He tore of f a bit of the newspaper’s margins and wrote an alternate account on it.  
“No..I should say it in person.” The other assassin touched the plastic chip in his pocket.”I owe you an amends. I should never have tried to kill you or your now father-in-law.”  
“That wasn’t pathology…that was business. And, now that I know my father-in-law better, I can’t exactly blame you.”

“A voice that was a blast from the past cut through the silence. “I heard you were back.”Paul Sperwicki thundered, seemingly unable to keep social distance in mind as he hugged Martin almost violently. “At the risk of blasphemy…thank God.”  
Paul dusted himself off and handed the black man his card. “Paul Sperwicki, realtor. My card.”  
Martin laughed. “You still have cards?”  
“Yes…I’m fifty and I don’t mess with what works…I still have cards. But my Instagram is listed on them, fuck you very much.”  
“Sounds super hip, man.”  
“Is this gentleman bothering you?”Paul asked.  
“One second,” Martin told the other hired gun. “We just have something to talk about for a moment.” Martin walked off with Paul while his guest smiled tentatively. “Well, it’s been years, but I guess the amends will keep for a hot minute.” “I’m sorry,” Martin replied, “but Paul here’s an old friend and stuff comes up from time to time.” “Make new friends/ but keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.” “Right, unless it gets tarnished.” Martin said. “So he don’t really sell houses?” “Oh, I absolutely do…why don’t you look at the virtual-property tours on the website…even though I say it myself, these recent additions are off the chain!” Paul pitched. When they were out of earshot of even murder-for-hire trained ears, Martin turned to his friend. “What the hell are you doing?” “Well, I’m not sure you know how it is since you hit the connubial lottery.” “The connubial lottery,” Martin repeated. “It’s a word…it means ‘marital’, I think. I heard about Deb’s deal…it’s awesome. But I’m dying out here, man. Nobody wants to buy a house while they’re worried they might, you know, choke to death. In a literal way, I mean,Not the John Cougar Mellencamp way from when we were kids…that sells tons of cable channels….barbecues, internet radio, you name it. Actual respiratory distress just sells face masks(Which I totally know I’m cheating on…don’t tell my mom…she makes ‘em. And absolutely noxious green-apple hand sanitizer that I’m convinced she also drinks.) Paul made a face, waited a moment for the impact to sink in and pulled a mask over his face. Martin thought he looked like a doctor with a caffeine problem…it perversely suited him. “So you sell an assassin real estate? Even if he does seem as though he’s going through some kind of transition right now…” “Is it sexist if, since he’s gonna be a chick, I pitch her on a galley kitchen? Cause I kinda think it is, but I wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity if it’s there.” "Don't." “Which one of us are you talking to?”  
“Much like Jack Benny, I’m still thinking.”

“One second,” Martin told the other hired gun. “We just have something to talk about for a moment.” Martin walked off with Paul while his guest smiled tentatively.  
“Well, it’s been years, but I guess the amends will keep for a hot minute.”  
“I’m sorry,” Martin replied, “but Paul here’s an old friend and stuff comes up from time to time.”  
“Make new friends/ but keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.”  
“Right, unless it gets tarnished.” Martin said.  
“So he don’t really sell houses?”  
“Oh, I absolutely do…why don’t you look at the virtual-property tours on the website…even though I say it myself, these recent additions are off the chain!” Paul pitched.  
When they were out of earshot of even murder-for-hire trained ears, Martin turned to his friend. “What the hell are you doing?”  
“Well, I’m not sure you know how it is since you hit the connubial lottery.”  
“The connubial lottery,” Martin repeated.  
“It’s a word…it means ‘marital’, I think. I heard about Deb’s deal…it’s awesome. But I’m dying out here, man. Nobody wants to buy a house while they’re worried they might, you know, choke to death. In a literal way, I mean,Not the John Cougar Mellencamp way from when we were kids…that sells tons of cable channels….barbecues, internet radio, you name it. Actual respiratory distress just sells face masks(Which I totally know I’m cheating on…don’t tell my mom…she makes ‘em. And absolutely noxious green-apple hand sanitizer that I’m convinced she also drinks.) Paul made a face, waited a moment for the impact to sink in and pulled a mask over his face. Martin thought he looked like a doctor with a caffeine problem…it perversely suited him.  
“So you sell an assassin real estate? Even if he does seem as though he’s going through some kind of transition right now…”  
“Is it sexist if, since he’s gonna be a chick, I pitch her on a galley kitchen? Cause I kinda think it is, but I wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity if it’s there.”  
"Don't."


	4. Lightening up...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Paul enjoy the calm before the storm.

“Uh, I don’t think it’s that kind of transition,” Martin said. “Kenneth said he wants to apologize for trying to whack my father-in-law.”  
Martin moved back—Paul always wanted to be too close, even from the time they’d been boys together and Martin had saved him from a seventh-grade ass-kicking.(This was also where Martin found the scary part of himself, besides the guy that wrote song lyrics on his notebooks. So he guessed he owed Paul too.)

“So it’s Kenneth now?”

“Yeah, sure…he texted me. Don’t tell him, but I *was* having some trouble putting his name with a face.”

“Is that safe?” Paul said, fidgeting a little as he always did during emotional conversations. “A guy like that having your number, I mean.”

“Paul,” Martin reminded him. “I’m a guy like that. Leaving that aside, though…I have a special line for…compatriots. Besides, you were going to sell him a trendy loft.”

“ I would have sold you your house,” Sperwicki said. “Taken a hit on the commission, too, had you not forsaken us for the fickle charms of the Golden State….You know one thing, though.”  
“What’s that?”  
“ If he is apologizing for an attempt on your father-in-law, he never met him.”

They both laughed, and it felt good, even though the joke wasn’t that funny

“I gotta go…I’ve taken so long picking up this paper, Deb will expect me to be in the next edition.”  
“I wasn’t kidding that much… your FIL is a scary dude. Still looks at me as a bed-wetter. If business doesn’t pick up, maybe I can take over for Kenneth.”  
“Don’t even joke about that!”


	5. Collective Bargaining?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenneth struggles with management, and his own developing conscience.

“No.” From the screen on his laptop, Kenneth watched his boss’ face freeze into a hideous rictus, while touching his big, fleshy face, no less. He really needed to get out of this job. Out of habit, though he’d changed out of his suit and into shorts, he searched for the chip in his pocket. He’d gotten into quite a habit of touching it for luck, or reassurance or something, so when he pulled his hand up, it felt empty all out of proportion.

“What do you mean, no?” Kenneth asked. “What kind of union are you running?”

“…cooperative…different thing…certain risk in our profession…” Grocer said, his image pixellating, and probably his big hand on the mute button.

“I still think I want more protection. You’re sending me out and about to do a job for you—I want to feel relatively safe.”

The picture on the screen leveled out and Kenneth could see the skeptical look on his boss’ face. “You realize, calling what we do essential would undermine this country’s faith in itself… nobody would allow it.” Grocer softened a little. “It’s nothing personal.”

“ Sometimes I wonder why I ever left Europe. I mean, there’s racial shit there, but not like our homegrown racial shit. I felt like I could breathe. It was nice. I could walk in the park at night…get a cab.”  
“You couldn’t do that now, you know?”

“You really are a buzzkill, but my point still stands.”  
“Ok, I hear you, Killer Kaepernick. So, do you want the Newbery job or not?”

“Newbery? I thought it was that Exxon guy…” Not like he could say he promised Blank he wouldn’t harm a hair of Bart Newbery’s Bidenish eyebrows, but curiosity would put off the inevitable big step for a while.  
Grocer shrugged. “The wife called it off…maybe they’re rekindling…who cares?”


	6. Labor Relations...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two destinies start to come together...

With a delicacy and attention to detail that he mostly exhibits at work(in in his childhood, in a long-ago crafts class) Kenneth made a sign that said “Strike!” and put it on a pencil. He waved it at his boss. “There’s probably a better way to do this, but what the hell do I know about it? I’m on strike, though, is the thing.”

“No, I don’t accept this.” Grocer argued. “We have a contract.”

“That you materially altered when the target was changed.”  
“Are you related to this guy or something?”

“as far as I know, only in the sense that we’re in the human family,” Kenneth replied. “Would it make a difference?”

“I don’t know…” the older hitman waved the question away like the fly he probably had in his kitchen. “Possibly.”  
“Ok, then, he’s my great-uncle Bert. If that makes you feel better.”

“If he really were your relative, you’d probably know his name is Bart.”  
“Like on The Simpsons…cool. Always laugh when that little dude says “Ay, Caromba.” Don’t know why, but it just kills me.”  
Grocer sat back at his messy desk, made a big show of going over accounts that, from what Kenneth could see, might as well had been takeout menus. “You know you’re expensive. And the job market just took a giant dump. I may have to get a younger talent in there.”  
“Elegant as always… do what you gotta do. I will.”  
MEANWHILE, IN ANOTHER PART OF GROSSE POINTE  
Martin Blank smoothed down his black shirt and pants…he supposed dressing all in black and shimmying through the vents at the rehab center like John Bender on a , well, Bender was over-the-top, but he felt good keeping his skills up. However, the closer he got to his father-in-law’s door, he considered pulling his mask up and sliding back where he’d come. He’d tell Debi that her dad was deeply asleep, or possibly dead. Loss made Debi aroused, so much so that, in Martin’s own ten-year absence, young men probably didn’t get pissed about delivering her Free Press for a chintzy tip. He started to sweat and wish he had a nose that closed like a hippopotamus’ as he approached Bart’s door, hoping to find him in a deep medicated sleep. He did the deep breathing as Doctor Oatman had taught him, and gradually fear of his fil and the virus receded. Martin rapped on the door.  
His father-in-law was in bed but his eyes flew open, looking slightly unfocused.”Oh, Blank, it’s you,” he seemed to act like he was at one of his Memorial Day barbecues during one of those distant hot days when Martin climbed the trellis to get in Debi’s bedroom.  
It was on the tip of Martin’s tongue to ask who the hell else he thought it would be, since the rules had changed and the old man’s life was divided into enemies and lackeys, with very few friends in the mix. “Yeah, it’s me.”  
“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” Bart said. “Since those kids were in here before.”  
“Kids?” Had Bart been hallucinating? "Mr. Newbery, I haven't seen you in person in two years!"  
Bart's steely gaze slowly returned. " You mean, you didn't send a skinny white guy with bleached hair and black guy with baggy pants to see me?"


	7. Employees Will Kill You Every Time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin discovers Bart Newbery was right...

“You know,” Bart said, his face serious but finally like itself for the first time since Martin arrived. His sharp gaze had Martin anxious in high school, but now he was relieved to see that baleful glower. “at one time, all it would have taken for me to mess up those little bastards was one phone call. If that.”

“I know,” Martin replied, vowing to check into it. “You were horrifying, but Debi still loves you, so here we are.”

“Blank, that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Bart welled up, picking up a linen handkerchief with his initials on it. (BAN) He blew his nose with a most un-preppy honk, which made Martin want to laugh.

“I hate to interrupt this moment, but if I’m going to figure this out, I’ve got to go,”

“Fine, Blank, but they also rob me blind in here.”

Inwardly, Martin was skeptical, but he kept his composure. “One problem at a time, Mr. Newberry.”

Bart just grunted. “it would help if you didn’t get sentimental every time,” Martin whispered under his breath.

Over the next few days, Martin struggled to find reasons to go out and be close to Bart’s rehab facility. One day he bought stamps, and on a few others, he purchased enough random items on Debi’s grocery list that she said “I make a list for a reason,” but eventually his patience was rewarded. As he approached the facility, he startled two runty teens, one white and one black, who, Martin’s spider sense told him were up to no good at all. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

With a studied attempt at cool, the young black runt said “It’s not illegal to visit people, Johnny Cash!” He ruined the effect by laughing at his own joke, and Martin looked down. He’d put on all black again out of habit.

“it kind of is, actually,” Martin said. “Why aren’t you wearing a mask?”  
His pasty white friend, in an over-washed concert t-shirt so old Martin couldn’t read the band said “You obviously don’t know who you’re messing with…we have a special project with a gentleman in there…”  
“Shut up, Felix…you know that fat man in the glasses said not to say anything about that shit. You stupid junkie.”  
“You’re right, Lamont…I usually don’t talk about my adventures in wet work. Not since that difficult business in Uruguay…of course the former Eastern bloc is always such a crapshoot.”  
“Yo, Angel, hold up!” The black teen, Lamont, ran after Martin, clearly torn about whether he should do something for his wincing friend on the sidewalk. Felix looked pained, but his eyes were clearer from whatever he was on. Martin made the universal “Who, me?” shrug, while thinking at the same time that a black coat was over the top, and that he lacked Bart’s callousness. Mr. Newbery would have no trouble stepping over both of them, maybe even breaking some fingers, if they interfered with some goal of his. He didn’t see the resemblance to the vampire with a soul, but in a casual viewing, he found the character’s moral evolution compelling. “Look,” Martin said. “I let my temper get away from me…which would have been unprofessional in my former life, but I am serious…you can’t mess with my father-in-law.” “I know my friend is, like, an idiot or whatever. Loves to make up shit too.” Felix in the faded shirt made a weak retort, but his friend shot him down. “You know you do, but it makes life a little more exciting so mostly I don’t give a shit.” “I think everyone has that friend,” Martin said, thinking of Paul. “Which is all interesting, but what about the hit on my father-in-law?” “I’m getting to it. Felix and I were sitting in the park, six feet apart, getting our heads up, you know, cause it was Saturday night and stuff.” Martin didn’t do a good job of hiding his impatience, and waved the story along with his hand. “Uh huh.” “So then, this paunchy old guy gets out of a big car with tinted windows, and I was getting uptight because I thought he wanted us to…I don’t know. Do naked stuff.(and I was thinking about that too, cause he pulled out mad hundreds.) Martin stepped to Felix, face expressionless and did something that made the younger man twist his face in pain.” Real men do, they don’t just talk, Felix. Also, your geography sucks. Also, I better not catch you here again.”


	8. Change of Scenery...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debi and Martin act fast to protect Bart

That night, as Martin drove past the rehab place for the third time in a week, masked-up and wearing black, it sort of feels like an assignment. He even has a weapon in the glove compartment, which was another reason he made sure the day before that his tail-light was replaced. It takes forever for Bart to come to the window, even after Martin pelted it with a small planet of gravel from the rehab’s sad little front yard. “You can’t stay here,” Martin said, trying to whisper and project at once.  
“I agree,” Bart said. “Tell your wife that. She’s the one who said I couldn’t stay with you.” He looked more pouty than a captain of industry with a price on his head who hadn’t mistakenly gotten elected to higher office had any right to.Martin suppressed his fantasy about plugging the old bastard right where he stood(mostly because he was slipping and left the weapon in the car), but he still mouthed “Thank you, Debi.” As if she were standing right there beside him.  
“Let’s not rehash that now. “ Martin said. “Is there somewhere you can go that not that many people know about? Because things are about to get hot here, and you can’t come home with me…because people might connect us. “and my sanity is worth something,” but he didn’t finish that thought either.  
“I could stay in the garage,” Bart offered, clearly feeling that he was being generous. “ Maybe take another crack at the old memoirs.”  
“For work that important, you need privacy, sir. Let me see if Deb has any thoughts.”  
Martin pulled out his phone. “Deb, hi, it’s me…did you and your dad ever go anywhere special on vacation? Cause he’s looking for some quiet time to work on his memoirs.”  
“Ugh, not that old thing again…he’s been wanting to do it since Iacocca came out… we went to the Wisconsin Dells once, Disney a few times…he’d never wear the ears…some cabin in the Upper Peninsula once he alienated what seemed like the whole Dells…why do you ask?”  
“I thought a little staycation might help.” Martin felt like his heartiness was completely fake.  
“Ah, well, since I don’t think both of you are over-medicated , I’m assuming this has something to do with your old job?”  
“Uh huh…some independent contractor want to meet with your father and I’m not sure what will happen.”  
“Great. I’ll come with you…maybe the mineral museum is open.”  
“I’m getting hard just thinking about it. Get it?”  
“You should be a dad before you make dumb jokes like that.”  
Martin was grateful when Debi arrived. Between the two of them they guided Bart into Debi’s roomy ride. His father0in-law winced and in the car’s overhead light, he looked pale. To his credit, though, he didn’t whine.  
“Didn’t you expect to have more problems getting him out?” Debi asked. “Maybe I should feel more concerned.”  
“I usually don’t follow rules, remember?”  
He slid over, because Debi loved to drive. She loved to drive fast, too, which Martin didn’t probe into, in case it made him think about Dr. Oatman’s musings on the death wish, but today he was glad because they made good time getting to the cabin.


	9. Everyone's Headed North...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there's a bonus 1980s celebrity cameo....

Kenneth tried hard to keep the faith with his strike, but hitman solidarity proved hard to find.(He was still waiting for his video to be aired on SoldierofFortune.com) He was torn about it; his own image made him self-conscious even if enough people showed up to make it look like a real strike instead of one man looking to retrieve some napkins or something. Following Grocer in his car throughout the Midwest(even with the occasional fear of being picked up for moving around so much) He began to know what his former boss would order in every restaurant (anything with gravy( and how often he would stop to go to the bathroom on the road.(enough times that Kenneth would recommend saw palmetto , or a doctor’s visit, even) It was almost like being in love. If anything, though, his boss took it in stride as his last love interest, La Donna, had not. For the moment, he just kept driving.  
Meanwhile, Debi and Martin found Bart’s lodge poorly stocked and slightly musty. She would hated to admit it because it seemed both materialistic and housewifely, but she enjoyed stocking up in the little store not far from the cabins.Suddenly her attention was riveted by a slight woman wearing large sunglasses. Debi turned to Martin and whispered under her breath “Do we know her? From high school or something?”  
“I really hope not,” Martin whispered back, conscious of the weapon hidden in his boot…he didn’t know why, but his  
“Hi,” the woman said, stepping back from the counter. “I’m picking up an order for Quinn. Unless my husband got all insecure and put it in his name again?”  
“That’s it…it’s MTV VJ Martha Quinn!” Debi sounded like she was playing along with a game show at home. She adjusted a polka-dotted face mask but extended her hand as if to shake and thought better of it.”Ms. Quinn, I’m Debi Newbery- Blank. We’ve been trying to get you on our podcast literally forever.”  
“Martha, please. Mostly I focus on art now and don’t really chew over the VJ days but your podcast is the best. We should definitely work something out one of these days.” Out of the corner of his eye, Martin thought he spotted the figure of the skinny white boy from the rehab center parking lot.

A DAY EARLIER  
Already Lamont was beginning to hate how comfortable his friend was in his car. Felix looked small, but he had some clodhoppers, and he was all too comfortable putting them on the dashboard. Sure the car was not really a babe magnet, but It was all his. “I hate when you do that.” He said at last. “At least, change your socks…stinking up my whole machine and only have half the gas money.”  
Felix took a sip from a bottle of something green and said “I’m good for it…now, tell me again about your cousin’s place.”  
Somehow, he had the idea that Lamont’s cousin had some kind of training camp up north, instead of just some ordinary hunting lodge…maybe that was his friend’s inflated sense of himself, or maybe Lamont set up that impression(Even though he sat with his friend when he drank, he usually didn’t indulge as heavily because he was liable to say almost anything.) “Hold up,” Lamont replied. “Don’t want you to think there’s some kind of, like, madrassa out there, you know. It’s just a hunting lodge I’m borrowing from my bougie cousin Travis.”  
“What’s he like?” Felix asked. If Lamont hadn’t been driving, he’d have wanted to turn his face away. Felix looked young enough to have a superhero in the car with him, maybe have a towel around his neck.  
"He won't be there, but he's as well-adjusted as you'd expect from a black man named Travis." Sometimes explaining shit to Felix was more tiring than all these hours of driving, even with hardly any traffic.


	10. Martin Saves The Video Star...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rookie mistake ratchets up the tension.

A bullet whizzing past you has a unique energy, but Martin has felt it three times.(he sometimes imagines that it comes with a cold wind, but maybe that’s a bit of misplaced poetry on his part.) He felt it the first time as a raw private, facing down a fellow soldier who was pissed-off and angry on his first leave at Fort Bragg. His calm in the face of it may well have changed the whole trajectory of his life, by allowing him to discover the …special talents that led first to an elite and often-disavowed unit and then to a consultancy of a sort.

The second time was during a messy project at work that made the fork in Paraguay necessary.(Corrupt politicians rarely have the opportunity to fight allegations with their bare hands, but the general made the most of it,scuttling the oppositions image of a suicide in bed with his service revolver, for something that, without the fighting, generally had the feeling of an emergency tracheotomy.Martin still can’t believe it happened sometimes…even after stepping back and his careful work with a reluctant Dr. Oatman, he still sometimes felt as though there were a clear plastic barrier between himself and job-holding citizens. Sometimes, he liked the barrier because it made him feel that he could never get caught up in chasing illusions they way they all had, but sometimes, even now, with Debi, he feels lonely. Maybe that’s why they never had children, even more than Debi’s fears for her freedom and her tilted uterus.(could they un-tilt it? Martin never knew, and at this point, hated to ask.)

This third time, maybe it’s that same distance that made him able to sense trouble. Makes him better able to sense danger and act on it, in yet another unfortunate convenience store. “Down!” he tells Martha Quinn. He is close enough to her to grab her unseasonable-yet-pleasantly-fuzzy sweater and smell how her spicy perfume mixes with the acrid tang of fear. Martin is reminded of a fantasy he had in high school, which gave the revelation that Debbie was a DJ an extra kick. Even though Martha Quinn is one of those people who talks when she’s nervous, and Martin, in sort of an occupational hazard, tends to hate that.

“I swear,” She keeps saying, wide eyes making her look young enough to have just stepped out of the studio. “I haven’t been stalker-famous since 1985!” One day, at some party, or talking to some host that survives the media-consolidation apocalypse, this line might get a big laugh. He wonders if that’s why she can’t stop repeating it,or if she’s just so far out of her comfort zone, she is seizing on any thought that feels familiar. He looked around for Debi, but she’d done what they’d always agreed on and booked, even though for her, those instructions had always been more about foreplay than self-defense. He even thinks about Bart, who’s probably just decided his family is just another set of unruly employees and may not have thought to worry yet.(He could have found some contraband Scotch and be dozing and half-watching “The Wild Bunch” on cable for all Martin knows, and, family harmony be damned, he curses Bart under his breath for setting events in motion years ago and now not being in a position to call things off, or even fight them off. “Ms. Quinn, ma’am,” Martin said, feeling he should fire off a crisp salute. “There is a possibility you’re not the target.”

“Martha,please,” she said, and her social tone and wide, puppyish gaze(did she have a crush on him? He didn’t need the complication.) “I’m just so grateful…you saved my life.” Her eyes are shiny, and it makes him blush. Still, there is a satisfaction in knowing he is closer to the side that preserves instead of destroys even as thinking of his injured father-in-law makes his hands clench with unprofessional anger.

“Martha, I’m thinking this was about my father-in-law’s creative accounting, not your taste in videos.”

“What the fuck was that? Freddie, you idiot.”Lamont’s in no mood to use a nickname that came from Freddie’s big googly eyes, which Felix has decided has given him street cred.(Maybe it did, somewhere. Maybe a guy named because his mother watched “Sanford and Son” while she was pregnant wouldn’t know. The intended diss lands, though, he notes with petty satisfaction.   
He knows he fucked up, slumps in the car like a kid being punished. “I waited till nightfall, didn’t I?”  
“Yeah, and tipped off the whole family,” Lamont took a deep breath, feeling suddenly like a father teaching table manners for the millionth time. “The thing is, if we’re pros, we have to get in and get out.”


	11. Debi Does Dialling...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debi offers to make a huge sacrifice.

Martin took Martha Quinn back to Bart’s lodge, even though it seemed somewhat ill-advised..his old reflexes and instincts had slipped a little, though he hated to admit he felt more alive being close to danger than at any time being the gentleman businessman(or at any time except with Debi) if he were to be totally honest. Martin found Debi sitting in the dark, drinking her father’s scotch out of a juice glass, with her old softball bat at her side. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see a glitter in her eyes that discomfited him, even though he thought he’d seen people in all kinds of emotional states.

Martha went into the bedroom to watch TV, but she seemed reluctant to leave his side at first.

“Martin,” Debi said. “I’ve decided something,”

He felt a chill and dreaded that she would say that she was leaving him. She’d left one marriage, after all.

He asked something like “What?” It was so quiet he could hear the sound from Martha’s movie and a splash of ice in Debi’s glass. For a moment, before training kicked in and he felt his mental plastic barrier drop in place, he considered begging.  
“ I want you to call your guys.”  
“My guys?”  
“You know, what’s his name…Doctor? Tell him that I’ll fill his contract…I’m a Newbery, I’ve profited from whatever crap he’s into, and I’m not injured, you know?”

“Grocer? I never worked for Grocer, but he always wanted me to join his co-op.” He didn’t know why he went on about that particular detail, except as a distraction from his wife offering to sacrifice herself for her plutocrat father, and from the headache blooming above his eye as the adrenaline from the shock of the convenience-store bullet left his body. “Um, I don’t think it works like that. It’s a contract, not a lynch mob.”

Debi frowned, seeming to be trying to hear the old movie at the same time. “ Who brought up lynch mobs? If you won’t help me, I’ll call Marcella.”  
“I didn’t bring up lynch mobs…just, they’re not picky. I can’t get behind this, though.”  
They both admitted later that the loneliest moment in their marriage was that night, as both of them got on their separate cellphones in different rooms. “Is the number that was in your boot good for Marcella?  
Debi asked, feeling as if she were at a random networking event and having to be polite.  
“ Should be.”  
Debi dialled, and after a few moments of muffled silence, Marcella came on the line.  
“Martin? You okay?”  
“No, it’s Debi.”  
“Debi,,,what can I do for you?”  
Debi explained. Marcella listened, and contacted Kenneth.  
Meanwhile, Martin called Paul.  
“Martin Blank, I fucking love you!”  
“Great…why, this time?”  
“Your man Kenny bought enough of a place that I won’t have to spend the weekend at the food bank…if I could, I’d make up a holiday for your birthday…how’s it hanging?”  
“Not so great…Debi wants to offer herself up to honor her father’s contract. Human sacrifice and shit.”  
Sperwicki laughed. “She can’t do that. Tell her no!”  
“Tell her no,” said Martin wryly. “I’m shocked you’re single, Sperwicki.”


	12. The End...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two women save their respective days...

Martin and Debi made love like it was old times that night. They both had to admit the twin risks of the virus and Debi offering to risk her life offered some extra thrills, although Martin longed to talk to Dr. Oatman about why he loved being seduced with Debi’s throaty whisper of “You have to…it’s my last wish.”(He even tried to call when they’d taken a break and Debi’d gone in search of refreshments, but being holed up had played havoc with his sense of time so he hung up, rather than awaken the semi-retired shrink. He could ponder that at some other point he supposed. If they got through this.two things that were different: Martin didn’t have to climb in through her bedroom window, and Bart’s medication meant that Debi didn’t have to be quiet.  
Meanwhile, Marcella from her undisclosed location, tried to broker the labor agreement.”Can you see me?” After the requisite fiddling with the cameras, Marcella’s voice was firm. “Our bottom line is, we can’t have anyone going after Debi Newbery-Blank.”  
Felix said “Who’s gonna stop me?” His young face, even without the inexpertly-covered pimple that Martin had witnessed, almost contorted with the effort of staying stony and street He was fronting, though…pissed off because that Debi showed up like a teenaged slugger swinging a bat and yelling “get the fuck off my lawn.” He’d slunk back to the car before his heart stopped hammering in his chest Crazy bitch looked more than ready for some serious batting practice. The tough pose lasted until a woman in a pink sweatsuit entered the frame and set up a canister vacuum and began vacuuming vigorously. Static showed up on everyone’s screen, and Marcella bit her tongue to stifle the burst of laughter that threatened to well up thanks to the extra tension and the incongruity of it all.You had to play it cool in these situations; it wasn’t a good plan to humiliate armed people. Marcella’s tongue would hurt for three days where she had bitten it. “Mom,” Felix pleaded. “Couldn’t you do this later? You know I have that work thing today?”  
“With all those ‘work things’, son of mine, you’d think you could figure out how to get paid.”  
Marcella had seen a little of everything, but she almost wanted to giggle. She didn’t dare. Not only would it seem rude and kicking a young man when he’s down, she made it a policy not to taunt armed people.  
Kenneth, seemingly on a more professional and mature conversation, and so well-dressed Marcella doubted he ever had to bite his lips to keep from saying anything agreed that he’d handle any attempts on the Blanks. “Even though the current situation makes me very anxious, healthwise.” He hinted.  
Marcella put on the reading glasses that kind of made her feel old and considered. She made some notes on a pad and said” We’ll handle your corona care, but you gotta meet us halfway…mask up, be responsible, and move some of your dates back…you’re not trying to kill yourself, Kenneth.”  
“I’d like ten therapy sessions…this is a very stressful era.”  
“If our business goes under, you’ll have a lot more to worry about…how about five sessions?”  
“You’re bluffing. Eight.”  
Marcella got frustrated, looking at the chicken-scratch Grocer refused to automate and the figures that would have been bigger if she were running this office instead of pretending to be a neutral party. She bit her lip. “You know what? My time’s worth something, too…the hell with it. Done.”  
There was an awkward pause where they might have inserted a handshake. Kenneth bowed and Marcella followed suit, feeling that she’d been drawn into a modern-dress Austen adaptation. “Call Oatman and Associates,” she suggested. “If they can deal with Martin’s stuff, they can handle yours.”  
Marcella put her hand to her mouth, horrified at both her indiscretion and the possibility of an unseen army of germs storming the gates of her freshly-painted pink lips. “Argh…forget I said that. I don’t know where my mind has been lately.”  
“No harm, no foul, Miss Marcella.”  
“Thank you,” she replied, shocked to giggle like a teenager. She told herself it was the laughter she’d held back, but the truth was, she wasn’t sure.  
ONE NIGHT EARLIER  
Martin and Debi watched the shitty little rent-a-sassin beat feet about half a step ahead of Debi’s softball bat. “Never thought I’d live long enough to say this, but kids today? Don’t have much stick-to-iveness. Not that I knew you had an excellent swing, Deb.”  
“My father said the same about you…”  
“Your father never saw sign one of my swing…” he kissed her neck. “ But he probably still thinks I’m a passing fancy…why didn’t you keep up with softball?”  
“Well, I met someone who took me away from most of my extra-curriculars…sad to say, I never got a rush like this on the school paper…is this why you liked…your former profession?”  
“Somewhat,” he admitted. “It was nice to use my talents.”

"Not all of them," Debi said, and gave him that look for the second time in two days. "I'd threaten to die for you, too."  
"I'd expect nothing else."


End file.
